Loving Frank

  She stared at the rendering below. It showed a rectilinear house with wide terrace walls that stood proudly against a steep hillside. Lettering under the drawing read VILLA FOR ARTIST.

  “I want these two drawings together on one lithograph plate,” he said.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I designed both of them for you.”

  She cocked her head, confused, then looked at the lower drawing again.

  Taylor stood up and stretched. “I believe I’ll take a break,” he said, and walked out into the garden.

  “That bottom one is just an experiment,” Frank said. “I was exploring how a house might fit into the hillside here…an organic house.”

  “You drew a house for Fiesole?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Frank!” she shouted, “I love it. Is that a walled garden?”

  He nodded.

  She threw her arms around his shoulders. “It’s not such an outrageous idea, truly it isn’t. We wouldn’t be the first people to live abroad for a while.” She squeezed him tightly. “There are expatriates sheltering in villas all over these hills right now. Just think of all the artists who have used this place to hide out—Shelley, Proust, Ruskin.”

  She took the rendering over to the window and held it up in the light. “It’s wonderful. Wonderful.” When she looked back at him, she found that he was watching her. “Don’t you see, Frank? We wouldn’t be freaks here. We could have friends, a community. There’s so much culture here. And working in Europe for a while might actually be good for your career. Once the portfolio is published, there will be Europeans pounding a path to your door.”

  “We’ll have to see,” he said vaguely.

  She stopped, careful not to press the idea further.

  Mamah’s walks in the hills took on purpose after that. Frank had made no promises. Still, it was the end of July, and his work was nearly finished. His plan all along had been to return to Chicago by September or October. If they were to stay, they would need to find a place to live quickly. Perhaps to build.

  On a Friday morning when Frank had gone into the city to get the mail and run a few errands, she set out on her customary walk up Via Verdi with a sketch pad under her arm, intent upon mapping out the unbuilt places in the distant hills.

  “Buon giorno!” Taylor Woolley called out to her, skipping to compensate for his game leg. “I didn’t know you sketched,” he said when he reached her.

  “Oh, I only draw things to remember them. Frank is in the city. Do you want to come with me?”

  “I really shouldn’t today. I leave tomorrow for Germany, you know.”

  “Is that possible? I thought you were leaving next week.”

  “I decided to polish things off so I can do a little more traveling before I have to return.”

  “Oh, Taylor, how I’ll miss you. I know what we must do this evening, then. We’ll all have a farewell supper together.”

  “I’d like that.” He waved goodbye as he let himself into the garden. “See you tonight!”

  Walking toward town, she stopped by Estero’s house and requested a special dinner for that evening.

  SETTLED IN A SPOT at the top of the hill, Mamah scanned the undulating slopes around Fiesole, looking for spots in the distance where an angular stucco house might fit into a hill’s tawny folds. She drew the shape of the mountains on her pad, then made irregular circles where the empty spots were.

  Mamah allowed herself to imagine a life with Frank in Italy. She pictured her children spending half the year with them. That was the best situation her imagination would permit, but she could see it quite clearly—how John and Martha might crouch around a patch of dirt, playing marbles with other children, their familiar voices interspersed with others, all of them speaking Italian.

  It would not be a permanent arrangement, but a voluntary exile for a couple of years. In the interim, hopefully, Edwin and Catherine would agree to divorces. She would bring Frank to this spot, maybe tomorrow, to show him the places where he might build.

  “IT’S A HOT ONE.” Taylor pressed his sleeve against his sweat-beaded forehead. “This drawing is the last one, and I’m terrified I’m going to drip on it.”

  Mamah stood a few feet from him. She bent over and squinted at the spines of books lining the shelves in Frank’s studio. She was looking for Vasari’s Lives, which she’d seen Frank reading not a week ago, but she couldn’t find it. Straightening up, she patted her pockets, then put on the eyeglasses she habitually misplaced and promptly saw it: The Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects. Frank had talked admiringly of Vasari’s accounts of Giotto and Brunelleschi and the other Italians who transcended the bounds between painting and sculture and architecture.

  When she pulled the book from the case, a piece of stationery tucked inside the cover fell out. It was an unsent letter written by Frank to someone named Walter, dated June 10, 1910, Fiesole, Italy. The very day I signed Ellen’s guest book, she mused.

  Mamah read the letter quickly, trying to puzzle out its meaning. In his tight script, Frank was shaming a Walter for rumors that Frank had shortchanged him in some deal. She realized it was Walter Griffin he was addressing. It appeared that Frank had repaid a debt to Griffin with Japanese prints rather than cash, and Walter was unhappy with the prints.

  She tried to picture Walter Griffin. He had been working at the studio in 1903 when Frank designed the house for her and Edwin. She remembered him as a soft-spoken but intense landscape architect who was passionate about his field.

  It was the tone of the letter that disturbed her. Frank was deeply anguished by Griffin’s betrayal. He had written the letter only a week or so before she had arrived in Fiesole, yet he had never mentioned the matter to her.

  “Taylor,” Mamah asked, “do you know anything about a debt between Mr. Wright and Walter Griffin?”

  Taylor’s eyes shot from her face to the letter in her hand. He looked worried.

  “I realize this is awkward, Taylor, and I don’t want to put you in a bad spot. But I need to understand some things.”

  “Well,” he said tentatively, “I heard some talk.”

  “Yes?”

  “How much of it was true, I couldn’t say.”

  “Yes?”

  He looked out the window. “It happened before I arrived at the studio, when Walt Griffin and Mr. Wright were business partners. I guess Mr. Wright wanted to go to Japan with—uh—Mrs. Wright. He borrowed five thousand dollars from Walter. He also put him in charge of the studio while he was gone. I’m not sure what year that would have been.”

  “It was 1905.” She remembered exactly the time—a year after Frank had built the house for her and Edwin. The year she became pregnant with Martha.

  “Five years ago, then,” Taylor said. “Anyway, it seems Mr. Wright repaid Walter with some woodblock prints he brought back from Japan, and Walter was upset with them. I guess he would have rather had his cash. As for Mr. Wright, they say he was angry with Walter for losing a big commission while he was gone. And for altering some of his plans that Walter was supposed to be overseeing.”

  “Mr. Wright does that sometimes, doesn’t he? I mean, use his prints as collateral for loans. Use them as money.” She knew perfectly well that Frank did. He had told her himself that he’d sold some of his collection to pay for his time in Europe. The check from that sale to an art collector had arrived just a few days before.

  “I couldn’t really say, ma’am.”

  “But Frank says in the letter that Walter never told him he was unhappy about being paid in prints.”

  “That I don’t know.”

  It didn’t involve her, but the whole thing made Mamah feel embarrassed and uncomfortable. Had Frank acted improperly? The tone of his letter was so injured, it seemed more likely that it was a painful misunderstanding. She felt bad for Frank—one more humiliation in a string of them. She wondered why he hadn’t sent it, and it occurred to her that it might be becaus
e he couldn’t even pay the interest he had offered in the letter.

  “Did Mr. Wright pay his people on time back in Oak Park?”

  “There were times,” Taylor said carefully, “when we didn’t get our pay on time. A client might take his time, or something could go wrong with a job, slow down. There were occasions…” He moved about, putting away tools. “I’d better be going now.”

  “Taylor…”

  “Yes?”

  “I trust you can be honest with me. How is it, working for Mr. Wright? Is he sometimes difficult?”

  “That depends on what you mean by ‘difficult.’ Is he demanding? Yes. There were stories.” A private smile spread across his face.

  “Tell me the stories.”

  Taylor paused, considering. “Well, there was a draftsman who was newly married. I never knew the man, I only heard the story. And he was working long hours for Mr. Wright. Sometimes the draftsmen slept on the studio floor when we had a big deadline and then got up early the next morning to keep on working. It seems this fella’s wife got pretty mad because her husband was never home. The story was that she came over and screamed at Mr. Wright and popped him one right in the nose.” Taylor laughed. “The reason I can’t believe that story is because Mr. Wright would never force somebody to stay. He can be persuasive, though, I’ll grant you that. Does he want it done his way? Yes, ma’am. Is he cranky? Well, I suppose Thomas Jefferson was cranky sometimes, too.

  “Most of the men I knew who worked for him wanted to be there. Some got worn out or mad because they felt they weren’t getting proper credit, so they left. But that’s how an architecture firm works—one man gets the credit, and you know that going in. As for me, I consider myself blessed. Not everyone gets to work for a genius.

  “Mr. Wright is way ahead of other architects. People just think ‘prairie house’ when they hear his name. But he’s so much more than that. If you listen to what he says about organic architecture, you can go build natural houses anywhere in the world. People don’t understand that now, but they will someday.”

  He took down his hat from a hook near the door. “What I’m trying to say is, he’s a prophet. What he shows in this portfolio here has never been seen by the Europeans, as far as I know. It’s going to change the way architecture is practiced. Period.”

  Mamah smiled, and Taylor grinned back. “With Mr. Wright, you just grab hold of the tail of the kite. If you can hang on, you’re going to go places you never thought possible.”

  “Thanks, Taylor.” She squeezed his arm as he left. “See you at eight.”

  FRANK’S FACE WAS RED and dripping sweat when he arrived home from the tram. He found her in the garden, where she had gone to sit after bathing. He was in high spirits and wore a new beige linen jacket. Under both arms, he carried packages that he dropped on a chair as he bent down to kiss her.

  “I love how beautifully they wrap things here.” He mopped his brow with a handkerchief and untied the string on one package. Inside were trousers that matched his jacket. Right there he unbuttoned the ones he was wearing and slipped on the new pants, which buttoned snugly at his ankles. Then he strutted through the garden, modeling the whole ensemble and posing with his cane like a dandy. “Exquisite, isn’t it?” He took off the jacket and showed her the little wonders of the thing—the FLW embroidered in curling Florentine script on the silk lining of the coat. “The tailor I’ve found is a genius. You can’t find this sort of thing in Chicago.”

  “Taylor is coming for dinner tonight.”

  “Perfect. I bought him a little going-away gift. But do you like this jacket? It’s not too narrow, is it?”

  “No, it fits beautifully. Who are all these packages for?”

  “My children. Plus a little something for you.” He put a large wrapped package on the table in front of her.

  Mamah stared at the brown paper imprinted with lilies. “You shouldn’t be spending money on me,” she said softly.

  “Open it, sweetheart.”

  “I need to talk to you about something.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter. “I found this today.”

  She hated seeing the gaiety drain from his face.

  “What about it?”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Walter Griffin doesn’t deserve a civil word from me.”

  “Why didn’t you send it?”

  He studied her face. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “That you don’t have money to send to Griffin. That you’re in trouble financially and somehow protecting me.”

  “The portfolio is going to change everything.”

  “I was just thinking…” She gestured toward the packages.

  “Mamah. Relax a little!”

  She looked at him skeptically. “So I shouldn’t worry about money.”

  Frank sighed. “No, it always comes. It’s never been the reason I practice architecture. But money can buy beautiful things, and I need beautiful things around me. I’m an artist, Mame. You more than anyone should comprehend that. Beautiful objects stimulate me, they inspire me. Look at this.” He pointed to the delicate hand stitching on the lapels. “I don’t buy junk. When I buy something, it’s got to be perfection or I don’t want it,” he said. “You won’t find me coming home with five cheap suits, one for each day of the week. I’d rather have one perfect suit or none. This suit wasn’t even that expensive. You see, I happened upon this tailor a couple of weeks ago, before you got here. If I tried to have this made in Chicago…” Frank threw up his arms. “Jesus, Mamah, we’re in Italy. We’d be insane not to buy clothes here!”

  “I was only asking.”

  He nudged her arm gently. “Now, go on, have a look.”

  She unwrapped the paper and felt something soft inside. It was a dress—two, actually, a paper-thin satin chemise with tiny straps and an overdress of the sheerest, gauziest embroidered and beaded cream silk she had ever seen.

  “It’s exquisite, Frank.”

  “Wear it tonight.”

  “But this is a dress for the opera.”

  “And this is a festive occasion. We’re finished with the portfolio. I want to celebrate.”

  IN THE EVENING Estero brought dinner. She spread a white cloth on the garden table, set it with dishes, then laid out the food on a small table nearby.

  “Fettunta…bistecca…” The tiny gray-haired woman named each dish, from the bread to the beef surrounded by small grilled onions, and all of it rubbed or soaked or roasted or otherwise imbued with olive oil and garlic. She put out a bowl of cooked spinach, then the individual caramel custards she had made for dessert. As she did so, Estero shook her head. It was not how she would choose to serve the food—all at once—but she knew they wished to be alone.

  Mamah guessed Frank had told Taylor how to dress, because he arrived in a suit and tie. Frank wore his new suit. He bowed elegantly to Mamah when she appeared in the garden in the dress he had bought her.

  She was amused by his grand manners. He was playing the role of the most gracious of hosts, seating her and Taylor formally, then serving them Estero’s dinner with the exaggerated seriousness of an English butler.

  Next door the Russians began their evening session. “Ah,” Frank said, pausing in his serving to sniff the air, as if to smell the notes cascading from the side window. “The Boccherini minuet.”

  “SIMPLE FOOD,” he said, tearing apart a piece of crusty bread, “is the only good food. My mother knew this, and the Italian peasant knows this. Have you noticed the Italians apply the same instincts to building their houses?” He dipped his bread in some oil. “Or have you missed that fact during your forays into gilded cathedrals, Woolley?”

  “I have noticed it, sir.”

  “And what have you found?”

  “Organic architecture, sir.”

  “You found houses made out of the same mud the Etruscans used,” Frank said. “Buildings that spri
ng naturally from the earth where they stand.” He pointed his fork in Taylor’s direction. “Mud huts are the people’s architectural folk tales. Pay attention to the folk tales, Woolley.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re going back to the desert. Where will you look for inspiration there?” Frank didn’t wait for an answer. “You’ll look to the desert, the mountains. What form has true spell power there? Are the mountains in the distance triangular, for instance? That big Mormon temple won’t give you an ounce of help. Every landscape has its own latent poetry. Let the contours of the land and the plants reveal to you the geometry of its soul. Then dig your hands into the earth and get acquainted with its properties.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not worried about you, Woolley.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, tell me this. Are you up to the task of seeing Wasmuth?” Frank turned to Mamah. “I’m having him pay a call on the old bastard. They’re dragging their heels, I’m persuaded. Only twelve plates have been pulled out of seventy-six.” He flicked his hand as if he were batting away an insect. “I don’t want to think about Wasmuth tonight.”

  They ate and drank, and Frank held forth. The Russians switched to bohemian dances.

  “Most of these cathedrals we’ve visited have no soul,” Frank said.

  “Don’t you find any of them beautiful?” Mamah asked.

  “I’d rather look at a pine tree for inspiration. It teaches me more about architecture than all the marble in St. Peter’s. A pine tree speaks to my soul. As for saving my soul, you know where I fall on that topic.”

  “Here it comes, Taylor. ‘Mariolatry!’” Mamah pounded her fist on the table for emphasis, imitating Frank in full tirade. It was a favorite word of Frank’s these days, and they all laughed. Both she and Taylor had been lectured by him several times on the Renaissance artists’ obsession with the Virgin.